“I became a journalist because I did not want to rely on newspapers for information.”
Christopher Hitchens
December is an utterly pointless month; everything seems to stop, days are Baltic short, mythical fat bearded blokes empty your pockets and my pub gets invaded.
There are shoots of hope though, as evidenced from my bedroom window. Already, Greenfingers and co are in preparation for another season.
I appear to have a sixth sense whenever Greenfingers arrives across the way. Often I’ll open the window to hurl some friendly abuse as works up a thirst for later at The Scruffy.
Last weekend I got back in touch with my compost heap; this is a staged process although it depends on how much space you have. Broadly, I start with a black plastic bin, moving on the produce twice unless the rats have had it, till its a sweet smelling crumbly mass.
Thousands, maybe millions of worms come alive, feasting on our leftovers; I feel for them when I have to disturb their lairs. The birds sense a feast too as the worms are tossed on virgin ground, there to be picked off at will. Small comfort in numbers here.
Very little grows at this time of year but garlic loves the cold and the first shoots are showing their heads; if the local cat shits here I will be having his!
These are offspring from Greenfingers’ plot, generously donated and in good hands; call it genetic engineering.
And if this time of the year teaches me one thing it is how much simpler life gets as we get a bit older. All I want for Christmas is my pub back! Oh…and a pair of gardening gloves please!
To Ada And Back – Tales Of One Bloke And His Mum
There I was escorting my Mum around Morrisons, half of Bradford seemingly wandering around just to keep warm. We passed my mate Risk at the self-service checkout, totally helpless despite a stellar accountancy career, almost begging the assistant for mercy.
Finally, we reached the checkout and as we unloaded suddenly my Mum held up a packet of condoms – coloured and ribbed – and looked at me accusingly. I protested that it was not me – indeed, I knew exactly who it was – as the checkout lady fell off her stool into the puddle she’d made.
“There!” I exclaimed pointing at the grinning culprit several aisles down, another retiree wandering around Morrisons seeking his kicks.
I must explain this is a regular occurrence on my home patch – Aldi – as tampons, nappies and the rest often end up in my trolley if Keith is in the vicinity. Sadly, I was off-guard; revenge will be sweet.
Madness
As someone involved in grass roots sport I feel for the people at Wibsey RUFC – see here – so if you have a bob or two to spare then they need your help.
Depressingly, what of the cretins that did this? What have they achieved? And what retribution will they suffer? All of us who struggle to keep alive facilities that will never be replaced once they go fear this more than anything else.
The Oldest Paper Boy In Town
You can place good money on the heavens opening the day of the month I deliver The Trumpit. But the warmth of the reception from the numerous businesses is brilliant.
Last week I was offered cake in Miss Butterfingers, a lovely gesture. It got me thinking I could establish a trend here.
Maybe a beer next door at The Idle Draper – how about it Jim? – followed by a coffee at the Idle Coffee Lounge. I could even get a pedicure at Revive followed by a trim from Gentleman John before we share our Friday pint up the road. If only that were free?
It might take me all day to deliver but what a day? We end the year with both villages we serve in good health albeit trading will be far from easy. So, if you can, shop and spend local and support these wonderful businesses.
Cut And Paste Journalism
I take no pleasure in the undeniable decline of newspapers; Bradford’s T&A, as we know it, has been in decline for decades. The last figures I can find – see here – were in 2011 and quoted a circulation of 16,500 copies. Anecdotally I now understand this is below 10,000, the peak being 130,000 and that in a time when the population was far less than the current 530,000 plus.
Inevitably, newspapers cannot support real journalism and this is not unique to Bradford. The T&A will point to its online audience which it estimates at over 100,000 but, again, these figures are out of date. So papers, shorn of resources, resort to printing drivel hastening the speed of decline.
As an example, the T&A has run variations on this story for three weekends now, all of it based on simply copying readers comments. The story originated from a leasing company’s publication of several unwritten rules of the road, few of which anybody who drives around Bradford, will recognise.
Would it be beyond the journalist to attempt to explore the reasons why Bradford’s roads are a disgrace? The idiocy, arrogant ignorance of the law and selfish disregard for others might be themes worth considering?
A Winner!
I entered a local competition run by my old mate Marvin, who used to be a trainer at Kents but has now ventured out on his own as a muscle therapist – see here. And I won!
But here’s the catch, a big hairy bloke rubbing me for an hour missed my sweet spot. So I’ve decided to chuck this into the cricket club’s Christmas raffle next week. I only hope my Mum does not win it!
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